Friday, November 13, 2020

9: Politics



Finally, we come to the use of Bulverism to refute political claims. 

Lewis says: 

The capitalists must be bad economists because we know why they want capitalism, and equally communists must be bad economists because we know why they want communism. Thus, the Bulverists on both sides. In reality, of course, either the doctrines of the capitalists are false, or the doctrines of the communists, or both; but you can only find out the rights and wrongs by reasoning – never by being rude about your opponent’s psychology.

“In reality, of course”. A huge explosion should go off in our heads at this point: at least as big as the one little Ezekiel experienced when his Mum and Dad had the row about the triangle. Ursula Le Guin made fun of Lewis and Tolkien for belonging to a cosy little High Church club and regarding everyone else with patronising disdain. 

“In reality, of course.” Of course.... 

There are, as the fictional Joy Davidman said in Shadowlands, at least four buried assumptions: 

1: Communism and Capitalism are economic doctrines which can be judged as true or untrue. 

2: The only way of finding this out is through reasoning 

3: The claim that Communists and Capitalists want Communism or Capitalism for some reason—and all other psychological theories—amount to mere name calling and low abuse. 

4: Communists and Capitalists honestly believe in the truth-value of their respective doctrines. Once you have pointed out their logical or factual errors, they will change their minds. The Bulverists, on the other hand, are arguing in bad faith. 

This last point was very important to C.S. Lewis. He says elsewhere that what is really hard in Christian apologetics is getting people to understand that Christians believe in Christianity because they think it is true. “They always suppose you are preaching it because you like it or think it good for society or something of that sort”. The devil Screwtape is pleased whenever he catches humans saying “Believe in this, not because it is true, but for some other reason”. 

And that is the cardinal difficulty of Bulverism. 

People do in fact believe in things for lots of reasons other than them being true. Political beliefs are not like geometrical theorems. They aren’t like historical facts. Politics, by it's nature, is about what you want to be true: what you believe the good society would look like. You can’t find out who is in the right simply by reasoning. Liberals and conservatives really are looking at things from different angles. 

“But surely, Andrew, there is such a thing as evidence-based politics?” 

Well, up to a point. If we all agree that everyone should get the medical attention they need regardless of their ability to pay for it, but that the overall cost of medicine to the country should be kept as low as possible, then the question “Is socialised medicine better than subsidised national insurance?” is theoretically answerable. We have established what we mean by “better” and are now haggling about the price. 

Again: we can find out whether a harsh, punitive prison system is better than a humane, rehabilitative one: once we have agreed about what we mean by “better”. Perhaps the crime rate goes down when you replace the treadmill and solitary confinement with job training and counselling sessions? That certainly proves that the humane system is the better one: always assuming that “less crime” was what you were trying to achieve. 

Indeed, to push the hottest button of all: either the murder rate is higher in states where the supreme penalty is life imprisonment than it is in states where murderers can be killed, or it isn’t. If we want there to be less murders and are prepared to go with whatever works, then the argument about capital punishment can be answered to three significant figures and a statistical margin for error. 

If someone chipped in with “You only think socialised medicine is good value for money because you are a Star Trek fan” and “You only believe that prisoners should be helped to reform because you are a freemason” you would have my permission to call them a Bulverist. 

But arguments about locking people up, hanging them or paying their medical bills almost never come down to these kinds of factual points. They turn on disagreements about what we mean by good. 

Some people believe that it would be wrong for the state to spend even one cent of their hard-earned wages on the health care of even one black poor person. And others believe that it is morally wrong for a private company to make a single penny our of another human being’s sickness. Some people believe that all human beings should be treated humanely, however wicked they have been. Others believe in a thing called “justice” that requires that bad people should be made to suffer, even if it does no good at all. Nice people think it is wrong to kill a helpless prisoner in cold blood, no matter what he has done. Nasty people think that vengeance is an absolute moral imperative. They don’t say vengeance, of course: they say “closure” or “justice for...” or “expressing society’s outrage.” But they think that executions are an ultimate, not an instrumental good. 

Capitalism and communism are not two different theories about how we reach an agreed goal. They are two different ideas about what the goal is. Capitalism places a higher value on freedom; communism a higher value on equality. Communism cares more about the condition of the lowly worker in the factory; capitalism more about the right of the wealth creator to create wealth. And what you see as good depends greatly on which side of the table you are standing. What is good for me may not be good for you; what is good for you may not be good for me. 

“Oh: but if I am a good man, then I will not pick the side which is good for me; but the side which is good according to an objective moral standard.Yes: an objective moral standard. The objective moral standard that you were taught by your parents, teachers, writers and political leaders, all of whom happened to be of the same race and class and religion as you. Once you have corrected the skewed perspectives of the liberals on the left and the conservatives on the right you can see that the table really is rectangular. And very conveniently, rectangular tables are the ones which allow me to keep my nice house with its nice furniture and carry on paying the man who polishes the table slightly less than he needs to live on. It’s not my fault. French polishers are paid less than home tutors. It’s how the universe works. It’s what God decided. I don’t make the rules, I just tell you what they are. I have no opinions on any subject in the world. 

“We all know” why communists are communists and “we all know” why capitalists are capitalists. Well, yes. Communists think, rightly, that communism will benefit people of their own class, and capitalists think, rightly, that capitalism will benefit people of their class. I think that we get on better when we admit that frankly. I am Labour because Labour will stand up for the working man and you are Tory because the Tories will stand up for the bosses. I want an extra pound an a hour and a months paid leave; not because there is some value free geometrical formula which proves that is the correct wage; but because I want my members to have a pleasenter, healthier life. You want not to pay an extra penny or give workers a single day off, not because high wages and paid holidays are contrary to the Tao, but because you want your members to be free to make money for themselves and their shareholders. So we go at it hammer and tongs for an hour, and compromise on ten shillings and a fortnight in return for increased productivity and flexible tea breaks. 

That’s how politics works. I think that’s probably how politics ought work.



Friday, November 06, 2020

8: Morality


I am a pacifist
You say that because you are a coward. (Hidden motive.)

I agree with corporal punishment
You say that because you are a sadist. (Psychological cause.) 


The case of agreeing with pacifism “because you are a coward” and approving of spanking “because you are a sadist” are rather more ticklish. 

Lewis is correct that these are taunts which are thrown at people who hold those particular opinions, and that those taunts are hardly ever fair. But they are not non sequiturs. “You enjoy inflicting pain and therefore claim that inflicting pain is sometimes necessary” is a much better argument than “You lost your mother at an early age and therefore think that an English Counter Reformation would have been a Bad Thing.” 

Lewis concedes (in Miracles) that if the allegation (“you like hitting people”) were true, then the claim (“you sometimes have to hit people for their own good”) would be refuted. 

“Such taunts may be untrue, but the mere fact that they are made by the one side and hotly refuted by the other shows clearly what principle is being used. Neither side doubts that if they were true they would be decisive.” 

But it is a rather gigantic “if”. 

If I say that pacifists are cowards, I am not so much refuting their argument as denying that they are making an argument at all. I am saying “I will not respond to your arguments about turning the other cheek and the sanctity of life, because they are not your real reasons for refusing to join the army.” At best, I think that you chose to believe that all life was sacred because that premise would lead to the conclusion you desired. At worst, I think that pacifism is just a word cowards invented to make their cowardice look less cowardly. Lord Soper and Vera Britten and Ghandi were only ever making meaningless noises. 

About five years before he addressed the Socratic Club on the subject of Bulverism, Lewis explained to a room full of conscientious objectors Why He Was Not a Pacifist. Mr Kirkpatrick would have given him very high marks for this essay. He establishes early on what he means by pacifism (the general proposition that war is wrong under all circumstances). He states under what criteria he would judge pacifism to be true (if it were self-evidently true; if you could deduce it from first principles and empirical facts; or if moral authorities accepted by all parties said it was true.) He proceeds to make a series of propositions and refutations: 

Proposition: Helping people is good; harming people is bad: war involves harming people; therefore war is wrong. 
Refutation: In some cases the only way to help one person is by harming another 

Proposition: War is a great evil: if everyone were a pacifist, there would be no wars 
Refutation: Unless everyone becomes a pacifist immediately, then the nations which permit pacifism would be annihilated by the ones who do not. 

You may or may not agree with his conclusions  I have explained my difficulties with the essay elsewhere -- but I don’t think that there is any question that Lewis is playing fair. He is honestly examining the case for pacifism and honestly showing why he rejects it. If someone showed him the flaw in his reasoning, he would change his mind; and he believes that the same is true of the conscientious objectors he is arguing with.

Lewis does not say that the conscientious objectors only believe in pacifism because they are cowards. He pointedly confesses that he is probably the least brave person in the whole room: a rhetorical flourish, of course, but a good one. But he does suggest that if you have applied reason and logic to a question and come up with an answer that is very different from that of your nation's poets and philosophers and statesmen and religious leaders, you have to entertain the possibility that “some passion has secretly swayed your mind.” 

“There is no man alive so virtuous that he need feel himself insulted at being asked to consider the possibility of a warping passion when the choice is one between so much happiness and so much misery.” 

War is so horrible, and staying at home so comparatively desirable, that the pacifists have given too much weight to certain arguments and too little to others, and come to the wrong conclusion. 

Lewis has, in that sense, said that the conscientious objectors believe in pacifism because they don’t want to go to war. But he hasn’t accused them of putting forward a non-argument. He has just said their wish for it to be true has caused them to make an error. 

I should be inclined to call this “weak Bulverism”; and to call the stronger claim—that pacifism is just so much tommy rot that chickens use to distract our attention from the fact that they are yellow—“strong Bulverism”. 

If you say that every time I see a painting of an impressive, finely dressed, regal female I fall on my knees crying “Mummy! I shall worship you for ever and never believe anything bad about you!”, and that is why I admire Queen Elizabeth [The First] then you are a Strong Bulverist. You are trying to place me outside of the realm of rational discourse: insinuating that my historical opinion is a superstition or a faith position or a psychosis. If this is what Lewis means, then I think he is tilting at straw windmills: you hardly ever come up against a Strong Bulverist in real life. 

But what about the person who says that my taste for strong, regal women means I have a tendency to give too much weight to the arguments that Elizabeth [The First] was a successful monarch and too little weight to the arguments that she was a poor one? What about the person who says that my fear of being broke may have caused me to shift a decimal place or mistake a minus sign for a plus, and that it would be a good idea if I went back and checked my figures? Let us call these Weak Bulverists. Weak Bulverism undoubtedly exists: and it is not necessarily a fallacy.

Lewis says that the process of working out if pacifism (or anything else) is true is like—can you guess?—a geometrical proof. 

If you can’t see that if A=B and A=C then B=C then you are an idiot and nothing can be done for you. But if you can’t understand a more complex proof, then you aren’t a moron; you just aren’t very good at geometry. 

“You can give a man new facts You can invent a simpler proof, that is a simpler concatenation of intuitable truths. But when you come to an absolute inability to see any one of the self-evident steps out of which the proof is built, you can do nothing.” 

He starts to talk about how you might teach geometry to a schoolboy: 

“Every teacher knows that people are constantly protesting that they ‘can’t see’ some self-evident inference, but the supposed inability is usually a refusal to see, resulting either form some passion which wants not to see the truth in question or else from sloth which does not want to think at all.” 

--I can’t understand my trig, Sir.

--Can’t, or won’t?

--But it’s too hard: I have no idea what four pie ar cubed over three means.

--No, it’s not too hard. You are too lazy. You don’t want to learn. Come out to the front...


7: Subjective Beliefs


Elizabeth [I] was a great queen 
You believe that because you have an Oedipus complex. (Psychological)

“Elizabeth [I] was a great Queen” is a subjective belief. It may be very widespread. It might be one of those truths where “opinion is divided” only means  “I think she wasn’t, everyone else thinks she was”. But it isn’t a necessary truth like A+B>C and it isn’t an empirical fact like “I have six pounds five shillings and threepence in my current account.” 

Many different things feed into my believe that a particular historical figure was “great”. Including, of course, the way my culture defines the word “great”. Perhaps I think Elizabeth [I] was a good Queen because she beat the Armada: perhaps you think she was a rotten Queen because she allowed Walsingham to chop her cousin’s head off. I think she was a great Queen because she established the Church of England; but I would say that because I’m a protestant. You think she was a terrible Queen because she took England away from the true church; but you would say that because you’re a catholic. 

It could very well be true that many people believe that Elizabeth [I] was a great Queen because they tend to attribute a quality called “greatness” to a particular kind of powerful woman. The Elizabethans created a myth around the Queen as the mother of the nation; the Conservative party did something rather similar with Mrs Thatcher. The idea that this myth has affected her reputation; and that there is a Freudian explanation for its potency is not a hopeless non-sequitur. 

I believe that Henry V was a great king because Shakespeare wrote a mighty heroic play about him: I don’t know the first thing about his actual reign. 

I believe that Winston Churchill was a great Prime Minister because it is part of my country’s national story that he defeated Hitler: I couldn’t begin to make a serious assessment of his administration. 

I think the Nazis were evil because Nazis were the baddies in the war comics I used to read when I was a kid. That certainly doesn’t make my belief that the Nazis were evil incorrect. But it does tell you something about the kind of belief that I have. Someone who has made an extensive study of German history and understands the National Socialists as a political movement and not as a collection of cartoon villains understands the evil of the Nazis on a much deeper level than me. He probably wouldn’t use the word evil, though. 

You might want to say that I believe that the Nazis were evil, but the historian really knows that they were. The patron of C.S. Lewis’s club drew a distinction between “true opinions” and “knowledge”. Strictly speaking, you can’t “know” that Elizabeth [I] was a great queen or that the Nazis were evil. The word “knowledge” should only be applied to necessary, axiomatic truths. 

Such as, for example, the truths of geometry. 

George VI was still king of England when Lewis wrote this essay: until 1952 there had only been one Queen named Elizabeth. It is rather endearing that Walter Hooper still insists on putting pedantic square brackets around the Roman numeral.